


five fates for you and i

by fanfoolishness (LoonyLupin), LoonyLupin



Series: Ouroboros: Aodhan Trevelyan X Dorian Pavus [9]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: 5 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Circle of Magi, Dragon Age Quest: In Hushed Whispers, Halward Pavus' A+ Parenting, Harrowing, M/M, Redcliffe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 18:52:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7280575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/fanfoolishness, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/LoonyLupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five endings for Dorian Pavus and Aodhan Trevelyans.  Five very different paths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	five fates for you and i

**Author's Note:**

> Five Things fics aren't as common as they used to be, but typically they were canon-plausible AUs in the style of "things that never happened to ____." I've always liked the format and was inspired by trulycertain's recent share of one of her fics to do one for Dorian and Aodhan. It can be more than a little bleak. Just a warning.

**_I. changes_ **

 

His head pounds as he opens his eyes, bright Minrathous sun too much for this morning.  He gets to his feet and dresses unsteadily.  He must have had too much to drink last night.  He stares in the mirror, fixing his hair, but there are no circles beneath his eyes.  Strange, that.  He feels as if there’s something missing.

When he comes downstairs, yawning, his father sits at the table with a slave pouring coffee.  The smell of it is bracing, lifting him out of his exhaustion.  He notices the slave looks anxious, and he wonders why.

“Good morning,” says Dorian cautiously.

“It is a good morning, isn’t it?” his father asks, a furtive expression crossing his face, only to be replaced by a soft smile.  “You’re looking well.”

“I feel as if I was in a bar fight.  Though, judging by the lack of bruises, I don’t seem to have lost.  One for me, then.”

“I’m sure you’ll be feeling better soon.”  His father nods to the slave, who bows deeply and exits.  “There’s someone I’d like you to meet, Dorian.”

“If you insist,” says Dorian carelessly.  He doesn’t know who his father has in mind, nor why he looks so oddly pleased with himself.

The slave returns, leading a stunning woman into the room.  Dark hair, dark eyes, a full, lush mouth.  She is breathtaking, each step a flowing sashay.  She is perhaps the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.  Dorian flushes, seeing the way her sleek clothing hugs her hips, her breasts.

His father stands.  He lays a hand on Dorian’s arm.  “It worked, then,” he whispers to himself.

Dorian mulls the words in his head.   _It worked._  They don’t make sense.  Something flickers at the edge of memory, magic in the dark, the smell of blood…

And it fades, until the sense of something missing falls away, and Dorian feels nothing but satisfied.  Why shouldn’t he be?  He’s awake on a lovely summer morning, and his father gazes at him proudly, and a beautiful woman holds out her hand.

He takes it.

 

* * *

 

**_II. harrowed_ **

 

The Fade shifts around him, formless, empty.  But there are voices here, things calling him, waiting to trick him.  Aodhan clutches his staff, his hands trembling.

_You’ll be all right.  You know what to do._

But he knows that there are templars ringed and waiting should he fail, and the staff in his hands shakes violently.

“Aodhan?”

He knows it to be falsehood.  What else could it be, in the Fade?  Yet he cannot keep himself from turning, curiously, hopefully, to see if it is the face it should be.

_No, not this._

But his mother is faint and misty, as if she were only a reflection in a poor mirror.  Her red hair is loose.  She only wore it that way when she was relaxed, when she and his brothers had a lazy day around the estate.   White and gray streak her hair now.  She is still so beautiful.

“You are not her,” Aodhan says cautiously.

“Aodhan, it’s me,” she pleads.  She stares at him.  Her eyes are brilliant green, even through the mist; freckles spangle her cheeks, though in fifteen years many of them have merged or faded.  She looks thinner than before, as if she has been ill.  “I prayed to Andraste I would find you here.”

“You’re a demon,” he says, hesitating.  But oh, it _sounds_ like her, like what he remembers.  A warm voice; a kind voice.

She’s closer now, though he didn’t see her move.  She’s clearer.  There are lines at her eyes, at the edge of her mouth.  “I thought I’d lost you,” she whispers.

“You… but _you_ called the templars,” he mutters.  “You knew where I was the whole time.  You didn’t lose me.  I lost _you_.  My whole family.”  There’s something hot and bitter in his chest.  His eyes burn.  

“I thought it was the only way.”  She weeps, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.  He could reach out and touch her, they were so close.  “I’m so sorry, Aodhan.”

“You never wrote,” he says, his voice thick and halting.  Anger sears him, vicious, gnawing.  He looms over her, takes a cruel pleasure in the way she shrinks.  “You let them take me, Mother.  And you forgot about me, didn’t you?  I’ve heard the others talk about it, how it goes with families.  They always forget.  They always _move on_.”  Ice frosts over the edge of his staff, forming a gleaming, blue-white shell.  It shimmers like a living thing.  “But I’m still _here_.”

“You’re right,” she cries.  “You have every right to be _angry_ –”

***

Templar Rhodes finds the new recruit sicking up in the vestibule of the Harrowing chamber.  She pats the younger woman’s back sympathetically.  “I’m sorry that was your first time,” she says.

“He always seemed so gentle,” the recruit says, swallowing, wiping the sweat from her brow.  “I never thought it would be Rage.”

Rhodes shakes her head, fighting back a deep sense of regret.  “Sometimes it’s the quiet ones you must watch the most.  Remember that.”

 

* * *

 

**_III. trust_ **

 

Aodhan doesn’t know what to do.  The sky boils a sick, raw green and the templars hunt them; the world is mad, he thinks, with the dust of Redcliffe clinging to his boots.

He watches the Tevinter mages march in, their robes strangely angular forms, black and mahogany accented with gold.  One man catches his eye in particular, moving gracefully down the village stairs.  His raven-dark hair and dusky skin offset grey eyes and an elegant mustache.  Aodhan shivers when the man’s gaze falls on him, but he doesn’t know why.

***

Everything changes by degrees; it’s how Aodhan finds himself staring down a sheaf of parchment, written in unfamiliar Tevinter script, signing his name on the line.  Words like _citizenship_ and _Tevinter imperium_ and _ten year servitude_ spring out.  But what else is there to do?

Altus Pavus watches him, arms crossed as he leans against the doorjamb, grey eyes pleased.   “You’ll flourish in Tevinter,” says Pavus.  “I can get you where you need to go.”

“As my master?” says Aodhan evenly.  He has never heard his own voice so cold before.

Pavus’ face twists for a moment, then the smile is back.  “Yes, technically, but you’ll find the arrangement can be mutually beneficial.  And I’ll teach you.  Alexius and I have been working on some incredible things.  You’ll learn far more with me than with the Southern Circles.  It’s for the best, you’ll see.”

Aodhan sighs, but there’s something honest in the other man’s face.  It pulls him in.  “Maybe you’re right,” he concedes.

***

Aodhan never sees Tevinter.  

There’s always some reason, spread hastily in corridors or passed in hidden notes.  There’s never anything official about why they don’t leave Redcliffe.  Aodhan hears Dorian arguing with Alexius, voices raised, flashes of magic visible through the windows.  He isn’t sure what side Dorian’s on.  He thinks perhaps Dorian isn’t sure, either.

Dorian does teach him at first.  New routines with his staff, tricks to boost his access to mana and conserve his energy, theory the Circles never delved into so fully.  There are times when Dorian puts his hands on Aodhan’s to show him how to shift his magic that he almost thinks, in a different world, there could be something –

But Alexius pulls Dorian away for consultations, and more and more Aodhan busies himself with chores for Dorian, research tasks, anything to keep busy.  Anything to avoid the work the others are put to, experiments, blood magic.  Aodhan catches hushed whispers in the castle between people with their eyes cast down.

Aodhan’s staring out the window of their cramped quarters one night, wondering if he can use the haste spell Dorian is so proud of to facilitate an escape.  A part of him might regret it, and he feels disgusted at the thought.  The door smashes open and Dorian staggers in, drunk and ranting.

“It’s impossible,” he snarls.  “He’s mad.  This Corypheus is going to get us all killed, and for what?  I should never have come here.”  He lurches to his bed and sits there, his head in his hands.

“What do you mean?” asks Aodhan warily.  He knows it’s not _his place_ , and that rankles, but somehow, despite it all, he’s _fond_ of Dorian.

“I shouldn’t have said anything.  I don’t mean to worry you, Aodhan.”  Dorian looks ashen, circles under his eyes.  Aodhan doesn’t know the last time he slept.  “Look, I’m sorry.  Whatever comes… I’m sorry.”

***

Red lyrium sings in his ears.  The Tevinter mages try to tell them it’s nonsense, they imagine it.  But it’s all over his hands, and he hears it.  Aodhan doesn’t feel well.  

They’ve had them on long hours, everyone’s slaves needed for the transport of the filthy red stuff.  Dorian tried to argue, tried to insist he needed Aodhan for other work instead.  But Alexius no longer takes those excuses, and Aodhan’s hands burn, red crystals digging into his skin.

Four mages were executed today for trying to escape; three yesterday.  Their ranks are thinning.  He wishes he could run.

Yet Dorian whispers to him in the dark, in the empty space between their beds, “I can still _fix this_.”  

***

Aodhan lifts his head hazily.  It’s one of the few actions he can still command.  Red creeps in his skin, his flesh, his bones.

Dorian stands at the door of his cell, hands curling around the bars.  He looks thin.  His hair has grown out, stringy and draggled around his ears.  He stares hollowly at Aodhan.

“Please, Aodhan, believe me.  I never wanted this.”  He swallows, reaching out through the bars, fingers straining to touch Aodhan’s cheek.  “I was wrong.  I trusted Alexius.”

Aodhan turns his face away, grimacing at the pain.  He doesn’t say what he wants to.   _I trusted **you**_.

 

* * *

 

**_IV. the sensible thing_ **

 

The kiss is not graceful.  But it is slick and hot, Aodhan’s mouth against his, and it intoxicates.

He wants to continue what Aodhan’s started.  Wants to grab Aodhan by the lapels of his jacket, pull him forward, wrap his arms around him.  Wants to do _more._  He’s dizzy with thoughts of Aodhan spread beneath him, what he might look like beneath those rugged clothes, might he be freckled _everywhere_ –

Dorian pulls away, and Aodhan opens his eyes, a smile fading when he sees the look on Dorian’s face.  “What’s wrong?” he asks uncertainly.

The blood roars in his ears.   _Herald of Andraste.  Inquisitor Trevelyan._  He wants him, badly, but… despite himself, he can be quite a sensible man.

“We shouldn’t,” says Dorian haltingly.  “You can’t be seen with someone like me.”  The words hurt, even though he’s the one to speak them.

“Someone like – Dorian, come on.  Let’s talk about this,” says Aodhan.  “Look, I – I care about you.  And if you’ve not noticed, I thought there was a spark between us.”  Dull red circles inflame his cheeks.  “You don’t even want to _try_?”

“I do,” Dorian hisses.  “That’s the worst of it.  I absolutely do.  More than you could know.”  He runs a hand through his hair, breathing hard.  “But one word of this gets out and the Inquisition could be mired in rumor, Aodhan.  I know what people think of my country.  Do you really think there wouldn’t be people who believed I had you under some kind of blood magic?”

“But it’s rubbish!  I know who you are, Dorian!”

“ _You_ do.  But they don’t.  And they’re the ones that are going to fund the Inquisition, sign treaties with the Inquisition, march with the Inquisition.  You’ll never defeat Corypheus without them.”  His chest aches, and there’s a stinging in his eyes he tries to ignore.  “I don’t like it, but it’s the truth.  And defeating Corypheus is what really matters, isn’t it?  So… please.  Let’s… let’s just stay at a distance.”

Aodhan stares at him, his cheeks mottled red and white beneath his freckles, his green eyes bright.  He bites his lip.  Dorian can’t help but see the way it trembles.  “So that’s it, then?” he asks, his voice cracking.  He gazes around Dorian’s nook in the library, then grabs a book off the shelf without looking at it.  “Fine.  I only came to get a book anyway.  Sorry to disturb.”  He ducks his head.

“Aodhan –”

But he shoves past Dorian, his shoulder catching Dorian in the chest, and then footsteps clatter down the stairs.

Dorian stands there in the quiet library.  Slowly he steps to the window, cracking it open so he can see outside.  The mountain air is cold against his face.  He stares out the window at nothing.  He stares a long time.

 

* * *

 

**_V. the romantic_ **

 

Sunlight plays over Aodhan’s face, and he makes a small, muffled noise, rolling over.  He can never sleep past the early morning anymore, it seems.

He cracks open his eyes, slowly becoming aware of the stiffness in his joints, the familiar pain in his back.   _Part of getting old_ , he thinks.

He realizes, suddenly, the early morning silence is bigger than it should be.

Aodhan rolls slowly to his other side.  Something tells him he need not hurry, a pit in the depths of his stomach.  

Dorian is curled away from him, one thin shoulder jutting up from under the covers.  Aodhan reaches out and grips his husband’s shoulder.  The skin is cold.

“Oh, love,” Aodhan chokes.  He sits up, joints protesting, to make certain; he turns Dorian towards him, rolling him slightly to check his face.  Dorian is pale and greyish, his eyes half-opened, fixed and staring at nothing.  He looks noble even like this, his silvery hair crowning his finely lined face, his expression almost peaceful.  

Aodhan sinks back to the bed and wraps his arm around Dorian, holding him close.  He doesn’t know how long he weeps, only that it’s ugly, and hard, and it leaves him exhausted.  He murmurs nonsense into the little notch between Dorian’s neck and shoulder, made deeper and sharper by illness; he presses kisses along the line of Dorian’s neck, to his cheek, his forehead.   _I love you I love you I love you_ , he cries, the morning’s silence shattered.

He does not cry forever.  There are only so many tears in a man for a single morning.  He slowly lets Dorian go, forces himself to sit up.  He slips his hand over Dorian’s eyes, willing the lids to close, then gets to his feet.  

He starts to dress, shakily.  He tries to remember to breathe.  Inhale, and exhale.  It’s harder than it’s ever been before.

There are arrangements to be made.  Dorian made most of them, these last few weeks.  Aodhan is grateful, in a wrenching way, that it was not sudden.  It meant that there was time.

He remembers now the little box Dorian showed him a few weeks ago.  “I’ve left you something, amatus.  For when I take my leave.”

“Hush,” Aodhan had told him.  “You’ll live forever.”

But Dorian had only given him a tired smile.

Aodhan fumbles for the box on Dorian’s desk, sitting down heavily in Dorian’s chair.  He does not want to think of what will befall their room, how empty it will feel.  Perhaps he should wait to open this last gift.  

He can’t stop himself, though, and he opens the box, his gnarled right hand clumsy with the catch.  The little box snicks open, and Aodhan lifts out the note.

_Amatus,_

_If you’re reading this, you’re either a bigger snoop than I thought, or I’ve decided my body has grown too tiresome to stay.  I suspect the latter.  You always were an honest sort._

_I don’t like to admit it, but even writing tires me now.  I should have wrote you more before.  It should have been every day._

_I love you.  I’m terribly proud of all you’ve accomplished, you know.  And my own accomplishments, too.  (It’s my goodbye letter, I can boast if I wish.  Don’t give me that look.)  I’d never have done them without your support, is what I mean to say._

_But more than that, I’m proud to have been at your side, amatus.  Proud to have been your husband.  You’ll never know what it’s meant to me all these years, your acceptance, your smile, your love.  You might guess, but it’s deeper than I have the words to say._

_That said, I don’t expect you to mope long on my account.  Go to Par Vollen (unless our treaty’s collapsed!); seduce some young, handsome Qunari.  Enjoy the seaside.  Drink some dreadful liqueur out of a coconut.  Settle down on a rainy day with a tall stack of books and a good pot of tea.  You can grieve me, but I insist you take care of yourself, old man._

_I wish I didn’t have to leave you.  But I’m not afraid, amatus, and I know you’ll be all right._

_I love you, Aodhan._

_Yours always, Dorian_

Aodhan folds the letter carefully, replacing it back in the box.  He leans against the chair, closing his swollen eyes, wiping his nose.  “Dorian, love,” he says hoarsely, “you always were a terrible romantic.”  

The only answer is the summer breeze through the open window, and the sound of his own breathing.  

Inhale, and exhale.  

**Author's Note:**

> I may have cried approximately 72 times while writing this. Don't mind me.


End file.
